Empress

Of course I love walking around Africa and being hailed as Empress, Princess and Goddess. It does wonders for the self esteem and of course I felt at home amoungst those words, who wouldn't? I was on my own in Ghana and subject to the nuances of the people and that was fine, and I totally get that one of the characteristics of these countrymen is that once they take a shine to you, you almost have to prize yourself away. Speaking of a person I had a drink with the previous night my new friend Rasta said: "Once he sees you with me he will leave you alone." -Yea, thanks Rasta.
         He put an anklet on me and a beaded ring on my pinky finger. He poured water on my feet, dried them off and rubbed oil into them when I said they were dry when we were on the main road.   When I needed to get to the nether regions of the country it was good to be able to call Rasta. When I wanted company to go for a quick bev, it was good to call Rasta. When I wanted to save me my cidis Rasta would always get the barman or cab driver to look in my direction. When I wanted to be alone, it seemed Rasta was always there.
          I backed the hell off when he tried to put his arm around me, and with raised palm just like a traffic warden stopping traffic I said: "Look at me, I'm from the West for goodness sake!"  But Rasta was not offended, if anything he fully understood and even said thanks for telling him when I explained that back home the men change their clothes on a regular basis, they shower- with soap, they smell fresh. The rastas are still rastas but they wash - a must if you want to get a woman.When they raise their arms you WANT to draw yourself in. Yea, yea I was exaggeating but I was trying to make a point.
When I saw him that evening sure enough he had changed into some three quater length trousers and an open shirt which exposed curly black hair on a dark board-like chest.
        "Put yourself away," I said waving my hand in front of him and he buttoned up his shirt. The physique was not overly impressive but I was glad he had found some new clothes and perhaps some soap.
         As humble and nice as he was, Rasta was getting on my nerves. Once I ripped the anklets off and threw away the ring I decided that rather than being suffocated by him I would endevour to meet other people and left the guest house early for the next couple of days.  I liked making my way to 'Barrier' and the markets, getting cabs where people jumped in and out enroute. I enjoyed my wide eyed amazement as I wondered where the hell I was and if  I would make it back to the guesthouse before dark.
          Rasta did cross my mind and I wondered  if a people really are just 'nice', or was he in particular simply supplying a service to a tourist? If so he was he doing a pretty sterling job but someone should tell him the importance of giving the person space.
         I never thought for an instance that I would get physically hurt by him or anyone. These people would befriend you into submission rather than force anything out of you. You would dash them money and clothes just to get them to stop being so flipping nice.  Was I really Empress or was I just English Money Perhaps Regular English Sordid Sex? I did have to throw Rasta's warm sweaty hands off me on more than one occasion but I did leave him some bright Primark clothes that I would never wear over back in England and a couple of tops for him to give his sister/daughter/wife.
I decided to get him to sort out the lift to the airport on my final day, because he was providing a service and I was, after all,  'Empress'.